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The air is unusually thick for a November evening, smelling like smog and rain. Akechi can feel sweat pooling underneath his gloves, emerging from Mementos into a crowded Tokyo street. The rest of the Thieves flit out after him, one by one. Akechi wonders why the hell they do this in public, and how no one else had caught them in the act, but he banishes those sharp comments into the corners of his mind. He needs to keep up the affable act, just for a bit longer, just so the Thieves don’t suspect anything -
“I’ll see you tomorrow!” Sakamoto’s loud voice cuts through the din of Akechi’s thoughts like a hot butter knife, and he blinks, jolted back to reality. The Thieves have begun to disperse, each one of them saying their goodbyes to one another, and he takes note of how not a single one was directed towards him.
There’s a pang of something in his chest at that - but he pushes that away too. It’s not something to think about.
He turns back towards the subway, resolved to head home since the Thieves had no more use for him today, but he stops at the familiar smell of acrid smoke, wafting across his senses like a drop of water in an ocean of stimuli. He blinks, turning towards the source. Cigarette smoke isn’t uncommon to smell in the city, far from it, but he still isn’t sure where it’s coming from. He turns, towards the small alley in between the entrance to the train station and the generic office building situated next to it. Off-brand red sneakers peek out from behind the brick wall, and Akechi sighs, realizing that in all his pondering, he hadn’t seen their intrepid leader leave.
He ducks into the alleyway, meeting gray eyes. Akira Kurusu looks back at him, eyes slightly upturned in surprise. His glasses are slightly foggy, most likely from the cigarette he held captive between his lips. Akechi’s eyebrows go up to his hairline - he knew Kurusu had a criminal record, but he also knew that it was a false one, another slight against his father - so he hadn’t expected the man in question to actually be engaging in delinquent behavior.
You know. Besides the Phantom Thief stuff.
“And here I thought you were the straight-laced type,” Akechi remarks, leaning on the sooty brick wall, standing across from Kurusu. “Does your cat have any objections to smoking?”
“Futaba took him.” Kurusu replies, as unflappable as ever. “Gonna arrest me?”
He could. It’d be a very, very petty thing to do, but it would also make this whole ‘suicide’ debacle a whole lot easier for all of them. He wouldn’t have to be forced to bring a massive squad of officers into the outer rings of the Metaverse, and not to mention, it’d keep Sae’s name out of any further press. Truly, it was an enticing prospect.
“Hardly,” Akechi cooly replies, reaching out a hand. “May I?”
Now it’s Kurusu’s turn to raise his eyebrows, seemingly taken aback by the thought of the famed Detective Prince smoking. But he recovers just as quickly, handing Akechi a cigarette, which Akechi plucks from his hand, careful so as to not accidentally touch.
(He has a thing about that.)
He holds the cigarette between his fingers, fixing Kurusu a look. “You have a light, don’t you?” He asks dryly.
Instead, Kurusu makes the motion for Akechi to put the cigarette in his mouth. Confused, he obliges, and he’s not sure what exactly it is that Kurusu’s trying to do, before, oh, he’s stepping forward, putting the tip of his lit cigarette against Akechi’s, bringing the two of them face to face. Crimson eyes meet gray, and Akechi realizes that no, Kurusu’s eyes aren’t gray, they’re silver, a strange shade that’s too subtle to make out from far away. He feels breath on his forehead, the thick smell of smoke overpowering him, and when his eyes start watering, that’s when Kurusu chooses to step away, laughing.
“Thought you were the straight-laced type?” He mimics Akechi’s words from earlier back at him, and Akechi has to resist the urge to put out his cigarette on Kurusu’s bare arm. The look he’s giving him must be something resembling fury, because Kurusu raises his hands in mock surrender, putting the pack of camels back in his coat pocket. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”
And now Kurusu’s definitely mocking him, with a smug tone that Akechi knows is supposed to mimic his own. Mentally calling on the gods to give him the strength to restrain himself, he says through gritted teeth; “Even public officials need a pick-me-up every now and then.” He manages to say, smoke pouring out between the gaps of his teeth. “So I suppose this makes us even.”
Kurusu chuckles, and the alleyway falls silent, nothing but the sound of the city, wafting through the cracks in the wall like the smoke they were breathing out. Akechi notes that this is the first time he’s really seen Kurusu at ease, or whatever that means for him. For once, his shoulders are loose, his eyes aren’t beady like a hawk looking for any kind of movement - he seems quiet. One could almost mistake his expression for peaceful, if you knew nothing about him.
Akechi takes the cigarette out of his mouth, exhaling smoke. It burns the back of his throat, in a way that he can’t quite describe as pleasurable, but it leans enough in that direction for him to do it again. “Smoking kills, Kurusu.” He says, smiling in some strange combination of the smile he uses for TV, and the smirks he’d wear when he knows he’s alone. “You’d think the great leader of the Phantom Thieves would care about his health more.”
Kurusu barks a laugh, and something is off about it, the way it sounds bitter and contemptuous. “Yeah,” He replies, taking a drag. “You would.”
That’s… a loaded statement. Akechi’s listened to enough people’s life stories to know when there’s more to a sentence or a phrase than one might think, and he’s caught off guard by it. He hates this, hates how Kurusu always throws him for a loop even when it's something as simple as a smoke break. Kurusu makes everything feel like a competition, by virtue of him existing.
Akechi tends to flip between something resembling great remorse and a perverse glee for Akira Kurusu’s impending doom.
Currently, that internal pendulum has swung in favor of the latter.
“You know,” He begins, not really thinking about what he’s saying before he says it. “I only smoke when I’m incredibly stressed.” Kurusu looks at him, eyes narrowing behind his fake glasses, that hawk-like look returning like a door slamming shut. “I guess what I’m trying to say… is there something weighing on your mind?”
Kurusu turns away, smirk that’s usually reserved for the Metaverse crossing his face as he takes another drag of his cigarette. “Gee, I wonder.” He says dryly, and then Akechi realizes that oh, of course he has stuff on his mind, he’s being blackmailed into disbanding his friend group.
“Besides the obvious,” Akechi corrects himself, trying to steer the conversation back into his favor.
Kurusu takes another drag, holds it in for a good four seconds. Akechi doesn’t look away, eyes fixed firmly on his face, waiting intently for an answer. Hoping Kurusu gets the gist from his gaze that he’s not going to let the topic drop. Not that easily.
Kurusu exhales, a massive plume of smoke parting between his lips. Akechi watches it billow up and vanish, silently wondering how he’s able to hold in all that smoke for so long without his eyes beginning to water. Not even Sae could, though not for the lack of trying.
“...It’s not like my health matters all that much,” Kurusu begins. Akechi nods in response, putting his cigarette back in his mouth. “Considering I’ll be dead in April.”
Akechi’s heart stops.
No. There’s no way. There’s no way that Kurusu could have caught on to Shido’s plan, not now, not with the limited timeframe and periphery knowledge he has of the situation. No way. Kurusu’s smart, but he can’t be that smart. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth, acrid smoke suddenly making him feel sick. “Whatever do you mean by that?” He manages to reply, trying to keep his tone as even as possible, so as to not give anything away.
Kurusu turns to look at him, and for one brief, heartstopping moment, Akechi’s almost positive that Kurusu can see right through him.
But then he smiles slightly, and all at once Akechi realizes that he’s talking about something very, very different.
“You’re smart, detective,” Akira says, in a quiet tone that isn’t mocking, but not quite genuine either. “You figure it out.”
Ah.
(The pendulum swings the other way.)
“...May I ask why?” Akechi asks, genuine confusion in his tone, because Kurusu’s got it all figured out. He’s living a life that Akechi could (and sometimes does) dream about, surrounded by loyal friends who have literally fought tooth and nail beside him. Why would he want to leave it all behind?
Kurusu sighs, taking the cigarette out from between his lips and extinguishes it, rubbing the head against the wall. “I’m supposed to go back home in April,” He replies, throwing his arms behind his head in a faux casual stance. “But my parents kicked me out, so I’ve got nowhere to go.”
“What about your current caretaker?” Akechi presses, brow furrowing. “I’m sure he’d be happy to keep you around.”
“You should have heard what he said when I first showed up,” Kurusu counters, eyes far away. “He’d always talk about how I was ‘nothing but trouble,’ and ‘a delinquent pain in the ass.’”
“He hasn’t seemed hostile to you as far as I can see,” Akechi retorts, taking the cigarette out from his mouth and holding it between his index and middle finger. “I’d imagine his mindset’s changed since then.”
“Maybe, but probably not. Besides, he’s got his hands full with Futaba, that’s enough on its own.” And that’s new - Akechi’s never heard resignation in Kurusu’s voice before. He decides he doesn’t like it.
“Why not ask one of your friends?” The cigarette wobbles between his fingers, swinging up and down like a pendulum.
“I’d hate to intrude. And anyway, they have their own lives. ‘Doubt they’ll need me in it.”
“Maybe they want you in it.”
Kurusu barks a laugh, an ironic echo of the laugh he sported in the Metaverse, all bitter and clean. It occurs to Akechi that he’s speaking to a brick wall right now - Kurusu has made up his mind.
No - his mind had been made up for him, the second he crossed paths with Masayoshi Shido.
“No one wants me in their life, Akechi.” Kurusu says, and the ice that laces his tone when he says his name takes Akechi aback, acrid like smoke in the back of his throat. “They need me, because I’m helpful. They’re my confidants, not my friends.”
“I highly doubt that, considering the way that they all speak of you.”
“Maybe,” Kurusu looks away, eyes hooded from his glasses reflecting the lights of the city around them, as if the very thought of entertaining the idea that maybe, just maybe, he was wanted, that he was loved, was ludicrous. “But I’d imagine not. ‘Sides, they got each other, don’t they?”
“Then why bother?” Akechi asks, and he’d be remiss to say he feels lost, but he does, just a tiny bit. “With changing hearts? With any of this?”
Kurusu doesn’t answer, still looking away. His shoulders tense up, shoving his hands in his pockets, all ease from the moment seeping out like smoke leaving a cigarette. Akechi doesn’t look away, staring at his back, and he notes how the curls at the base of his neck are thicker than the rest of his hair - maybe because they’re new.
“...I like the danger.” Kurusu finally says after a moment of thought. “Makes me feel more like a person.”
Now it’s Akechi’s turn to scoff, dissatisfied at the shallow answer. “That’s it?” He presses, letting some of the bitterness he carries with him wherever he goes seep into his tone. “You’re putting your neck on the line for some kind of adrenaline rush?”
“If it kills me, it kills me,” Kurusu replies, turning and leaning back against the wall. “‘Least it’ll be a cooler way to go out than, I dunno - a train or whatever.”
“...That’s quite morbid, Kurusu.” Is the only thing Akechi can manage.
Kurusu turns to face him, small smile on his face.
“Call me Akira. ‘Kurusu’ sounds too formal anyways.”
First name basis? Akechi isn’t entirely sure if whatever their relationship is qualified for that, but sure. “Akira,” He repeats, ignoring the heat that rises in his face when he sees Akira smile at that. “I think you’re being a moron.”
And that gets a genuine laugh out of Akira, doubling over on himself, hand supporting his trembling frame on the ashy brick wall. When he recomposes himself, taking his hand away from the wall, it’s covered in grime. “I think - I think that’s the most genuine emotion I’ve ever gotten out of you.” He manages to say in between shuddering breaths.
Akechi puts his cigarette back in his mouth, angrily taking a drag to distract himself from how red his face most likely is. “My point still stands,” He retorts with a smoky breath. “You’d be remiss to find a more loyal group of people than your friends. And I guarantee you, when you die, they’ll miss you like crazy.”
He knows that when he kills Akira, the Phantom Thieves will fall apart without him. That when he kills Akira, they’ll never be the same. Lives completely altered. Torn and shattered by their leader’s apparent suicide. They’ll think to themselves why? Why him? Why did he do it? Why now, what for?
That unfairness, that bitterness, would linger on the back of their minds like smoke in their throats. It’d stick and seethe until it swallowed them whole.
And Akechi can’t understand how Akira doesn’t see the effect he has on people. The lives he was going to be leaving in ruins when he inevitably departed this world, by Akechi’s hands or his own.
How unexpectedly… selfish of him.
Akira meets his gaze, and Akechi hopes that everything he’s thinking can be conveyed through his stare. Hopes that maybe he’s gotten through to him, just a little bit.
Akira looks away, and something resembling triumph blooms in Akechi’s chest. “...Maybe.” He finally says. “I just don’t want to be a bother.”
“Existence is a bother, Akira.” Akechi retorts, taking a drag of his cigarette. “You learn to live with it after a while.”
They stand there, in the boundary between uncomfortable and comfortable silence, and Akechi gets the sense that Akira wants to say something to him. He gives him the once over, his black jacket and jeans rumpled, stinking of smoke. His face betrays no emotion, but he’s biting his bottom lip - maybe in thought, maybe due to the aftertaste of smoke and nicotine. Akechi isn’t quite sure.
He doesn’t have anything else to say, so he makes up his mind to leave. But as he’s exiting the alleyway, he sees Akira reach into his pocket, with the intent to get another cigarette.
And Akechi, despite himself, gets a stupid, impulsive idea.
Swiveling on his heel, he turns back towards Akira, walking forward and invading his space, the same way he did earlier. Akira looks up, only to see dark red eyes a hair's breadth away from his own, Akechi tilting his head slightly upwards to make up for their slight height difference. He takes his cigarette out from between his lips, placing it between Akira’s, relishing in the way Akira’s breath hitches at the unexpected contact. Akira blinks, red creeping up his cheekbones, and Akechi smirks, taking a step backwards.
“Cigarettes can be pretty expensive around here,” Akechi says smugly, tilting his head slightly with mock-innocence. “It’d be best if you tried to conserve them, don’t you think?”
Without waiting for an answer, Akechi spins on his heel, walking out of the alleyway, into the light. He waves a hand dismissively behind his shoulder, calling out to where Akira still stands. “Remember what I told you,” He says. “I’ll see you tomorrow!”
Akira calls out after him. Akechi doesn’t listen, vanishing into the crowd, heart pounding, chest burning.
The pendulum has swung again. But he’s not sure in which direction.
…He needs a breath mint.